Wild Mercy
Chapter 1
Adam Backhurst feels like twenty kinds of shit.
Twenty kinds of wet, miserable, worthless shit.
The ferry reeks of ancient metal and industrial oil, the kind of smell that colonizes your sinuses and nests there.
Beneath it: that primordial stink of the sea—salt, decay, dying things. The hull wears a crusty beard of barnacles and seaweed, like a carcass half-digested.
That, he could handle. Maybe.
But five minutes after the mainland vanishes behind them, the captain’s voice crackles over the intercom with the voice of a man who seems to have had his cheerfulness glands surgically removed.
“Folks, we’ll be running into a patch of bad weather. Nothing to worry about. Par for the course.”
Great.
Adam sighs and rubs his temples. He has not been blessed with good genes when it comes to sea sickness. His grandfather puked through two World Wars on naval vessels, and here is Adam, about to carry on the proud family tradition.
The sky isn’t just gray. It is GRAY—the gray of institutional walls, of waiting rooms where you get bad news. Of the space between stations on a dead radio.
Up ahead looms even more gray—darker, meaner, pregnant with bad intentions.
It does wonders for his mood.
Then, as if on cue, the ferry gives a lurch.
Waves slap against the hull, sending icy mist washing over the handful of passengers foolish enough to make the crossing. The deck sways beneath his feet, steel groaning like a living thing, and Adam’s stomach folds itself into unhappy knots.
Somewhere behind him, someone heaves and empties their guts onto the floor. The sound is like a wet bag of cement dropped from a height. Far enough away that the smell doesn’t carry—yet. Though the sound alone makes him break out in cold sweats and he can feel the bile building.
He clenches his jaw and tries to block it all out. The noise, the grime, the damp chill seeping into his bones. The salt biting at his eyes. He hugs his Bible closer, knuckles white, and presses his back hard against the metal wall behind him so as not to slide into the man next to him as the ferry pitches and yaws like a carnival ride designed by sadists. Happy for anything that feels solid when all is liquid and motion.
His thoughts turn to the old stories of missionaries—men who braved rough seas, storms, near-certain death, while facing typhoons and braving the oceans in little wooden tubs. All because they believed. Because they thought they could make others believe, too.
God has always been his anchor. His rock. But the rock feels more like sand these days, slipping through his fingers no matter how tight he clenches his fists.
He’s been tested before. Tests of faith come with the collar. But never like this. Not since—
He swallows, hard, and forces the thought away. He draws a deep breath, tries to get his heartrate under control. Relax, for Christ’s sake, relax. He can feel his stomach settling just enough. Crisis averted, for now at least.
“Well,” he mutters, mostly to himself, “Calm seas never made a good sailor.”
Who said that? Einstein? Hemingway? Someone who’s never been seasick, that’s who.
He shuts his eyes and prays for land.
“What’s that?” the man next to him asks.
“Huh? Oh, nothing. Never mind,” Adam mumbles. Then, after a pause during which his stomach performs another somersault: “How much further?”
The man grins, displaying a mouthful of teeth that look like a vandalized piano—keys missing, the ivory long since surrendered to nicotine yellow. It does nothing to settle Adam’s stomach. Why the church has saddled him with this glorified babysitter is beyond comprehension. The island can’t be that big. He’ll find the church on his own, if only by process of elimination. Or maybe the man is here to keep him in line. Make sure the disgraced priest doesn’t make any last-second bolts for freedom.
“Haven’t got your sea legs yet, Father. Give it time, it’ll come.” Another domino grin. “You’ll be like me come summer, you’ll see.”
Yeah, great. Can’t wait.
“Not long now. Twenty minutes, I reckon,” the man continues, squinting at where the sun might be, if the sky wasn’t one endless stretch of fifty shades of shit.
Adam studies him with skepticism. Technically an employee of the church—one of God’s little helpers. But he looks about as godly as a back-alley abortionist. Bulging eyes that never focus on the same point, a combover that surrendered to the wind years ago, skin bearing the roadmap of cigarettes and hard weather.
If God made man in His own image, then the Almighty must have been three sheets to the wind when He sketched out this particular specimen.
Still, he looks at ease on this bucking bronco of a ferry. Par for the course, indeed.
Adam considers waiting it out in the car just to get away from the man (and the smell), but that makes it worse, somehow. At least out here, the fresh air helps. A little.
No land in sight.
“I think I’ll have a look topside,” he announces, pushing himself to his feet with the grace of a newborn giraffe.
“Be my guest.”
Adam lurches toward the central stairs, caroming off railings and walls like a pinball. If someone films this, he’ll go viral on the internet, he thinks.
He launches himself at the stairs. Hanging onto the railing for dear life, he manages to ascend—one step at a time. The world tilts and sways around him with each movement upward.
He reaches the top—the part of the ferry they call the observation deck, a term used with wild optimism.
A couple of old timers sit up here, watching The Endless Expanse Of Gray with stoic resignation. The wind is sharper up here, slicing through his clothes with newfound ferocity. Adam pulls his coat tighter and drops into one of the hard plastic chairs with a sigh.
His thoughts turn inward. That night. The hotel room. The choice he made and can’t unmake. And now: this island. This pulpit. This congregation who’ll sit there every Sunday while he tells them how to live.
He grips his Bible tighter.
He brought this on himself, after all. Made his bed and now has to lie in it. Funny how the church loves its metaphors for punishment—rods, beds, crosses to bear. He rubs his thumb over the worn leather of his Bible, feeling the indentation where his name is embossed. Adam. The first sinner. The first to fall. The irony isn’t lost on him.
Yet within this banishment lies redemption. He vows to himself: no more missteps. He’ll adhere to the narrow way, honor his calling, earn this chance at salvation whatever the cost.
His thoughts spiral down familiar corridors, winding toward conclusions he doesn’t want to face—when there’s a break in The Gray.
A silhouette emerges on the horizon.
Jutting cliffs, stark against the churning sea. Windswept pines cling to the rock like survivors of a long-forgotten war. Nestled between them, a scatter of buildings—though he can’t make out much detail before the clouds swallow it all again.
The place looks hardy. Archaic. That’s the word. He imagines the people made of the same stuff as the cliffs and trees—knotted wood, stone and brine. Warm, maybe, in the way that people have to be in places like this. But tough to know. Inscrutable.
He’s been assured the vicarage will have modern amenities. Even Wi-Fi (though “possibly a bit patchy,” whatever the hell that means). Yet he can’t shake the sensation that he’s about to step backward through time itself.
The thought unsettles him. And, if he’s honest, excites him a little.
He squints, trying to make out more details of the island that will be his penance and his home, but the mist conspires against him, revealing only tantalizing fragments before drawing the veil closed again.
Then the captain’s voice crackles through The Gray like a dull blade.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be arriving in about fifteen minutes. I suggest you finish your tea, grab your belongings, and start making your way back to your vehicles. Thank you.”
Adam exhales a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding. Almost there.
The ferry still rocks, though less than before. He decides to wait, thinking the waters will calm as they near the shore.
Above, the seagulls start in, their taunting cries like rusty gates swinging in the wind.
Somewhere in the mist, a bell tolls. A low, hollow sound, carried by the swell. A buoy, maybe. A warning, or a welcome.
The fog thins by degrees. The shape of the island sharpens into focus—a few larger boats puffing their way to and fro, the outline of a shed near the dock, colored lights blinking further up the cliffside, like watchful alien eyes.
He stands, legs unsteady, and makes his way to the stairs. Before descending, he casts another glance at the island.
It looms from the sea, dark and waiting.
And for the briefest moment, he’s struck by the strange sensation that this place will be his undoing. Or his redemption.
Perhaps his Golgotha.
He makes his way down to the car deck, his legs still adjusting to solid ground. Sidestepping the puddle of vomit from earlier, he avoids breathing through his nose.
His chaperone is waiting, leaning against the black car that looks, for all the world, like an all-terrain hearse.
He imagines mobsters might drive something like this. Plenty of room in the back for all their mobster business gear.
“Ready to go, Father?”
“Yeah. Let’s get off this thing. Feels like my insides have been on a rollercoaster without me.”
The man grins.
“Right you are.” He opens the passenger door.
Adam climbs in, glancing at the suitcases stacked in the back. His entire life, compressed into luggage. Ready for new challenges, he thinks, not feeling remotely ready for anything except a horizontal surface that doesn’t move.
The door slams shut like a judge’s gavel on a guilty verdict.
His chaperone walks around and slides into the driver’s seat with a grunt that suggests old injuries and older regrets. That faint miasma of tobacco and dental neglect follows him like cheap perfume.
“You don’t mind if I put the radio on, do you, Father?”
“No, no, go ahead.”
The man twists the knob on the radio, searching for a signal. Static. More static. A brief snatch of music, gone in an instant. Then the soothing monotone of the shipping forecast drifts in, reciting wind speeds and sea conditions in that unshakably calm voice.
He shrugs in apology and leaves it.
Well, still better than the sound of my own thoughts, Adam thinks.
He leans against the window and watches one of the crewmen on the ferry busying himself with whatever needs doing for them to dock. He can hear the clang of metal, and the rattle of a chain being moved. He can hear the hum of car engines starting up in anticipation.
A shudder runs through the ferry as it strikes the rubber fenders, and a metallic clang as the landing meets the asphalt on the other side. A long grating screech rises above the choppy murmur of the water and the smell of salt and diesel thickens in the air as the ferry reverses, straining against the tide. Something clunks into place and the safety boom rises to allow the cars to disembark. The remaining few engines come to life.
“Right. Here we go,” his companion announces and starts up the engine. The cars crawl forward, some stopping to ask the crew questions.
When it’s their turn, the man at the gate just gives them a tired smile. Adam replies with a sort of half salute through the window.
It feels good to feel solid ground underneath him and he sends a silent prayer skyward. The ferry has four lanes on it, but they merge down to just two as they pass a little cafe next to the dock, little more than a shed with a couple sad sandwiches on display. A couple islanders loiter outside, coffees in hand, eyeing the cars with suspicion, or so it seems.
Never mind me, Adam thinks. Just here to save your souls and tell you how to live your lives.
There are a few cars waiting in line to get on the ferry back to the mainland. He’s surprised there aren’t more.
The road ahead climbs in steady switchbacks, winding its way up the cliffside. The higher they go, the more of the harbor reveals itself below—a cluster of boats rocking in their berths, the breakwater curving around them like a protective arm.
On a good day, he supposes there’s a kind of rugged beauty to this place.
“What do you make of it?” his driver asks, and turns the volume down on the radio.
Adam watches the landscape scroll past—the bleak, gray sea, the wind-twisted pines clinging to the rock face, the tired buildings hunched against the elements.
“Well... it’s got a kind of bleak rustic charm, I suppose. Ideal for anyone who’s had enough of color, light and optimism,” Adam replies.
“Damn. I’ll make sure to get that onto Tripadvisor,” the other man replies.
“I’m sorry, it’s just... not what I’d envisioned for myself.”
The man shrugs. “Give it time. It’s not so bad. Once you get set up, some warm food in your belly, and get to know some of the locals, you’ll feel right as rain.”
“That a promise?”
He ignores the question.
“There’s a pub up ahead that does some decent grub. Fancy a bite?”
Adam realizes he hasn’t eaten in... how long? Breakfast is a distant memory and any attempt at lunch was obliterated by seasickness.
“Yeah. Yeah, maybe it’ll do me good. Stomach still churning from the crossing, mind.”
The man nods. “We’ll stop in. You’ll feel better after.” He turns onto a narrow track that runs next to an empty field. Adam can see a squat little building through a thicket of trees on the driver’s side. They pull into the gravel carpark outside and step out into the cool air.
The pub is called The Castaway.
Appropriate, Adam thinks, given his circumstances. It sits on the side of the road, a low building with paint peeling in places, windows fogged from the heat inside. An old sign swings overhead—a shipwrecked sailor sitting on a barrel, raising a pint in defiance of his solitude.
A small sign boasts “World Famous Pub Grub” in faded script, underneath which, someone has scrawled a crude penis.
“World famous, huh?”
“World famous.”
“Yeah? Which world?”, Adam mumbles as he makes his way toward the door.
-
It’s warm inside, with a musty smell, the way pubs tend to smell after a century or four of service. Earthy. Lived-in.
A few heads turn their way as they enter. A couple of locals huddle over lagers, an older woman with smoke-tanned skin nurses a glass of wine. A young couple with a baby look out of place and city-like in their squeaky clean hiking gear. They barely register Adam and his companion before returning to whatever conversations were interrupted.
Choosing a table tucked into the far corner, the pair sit down on old chairs that scream in protest.
Adam’s glance betrays a city slicker’s discomfort in this rugged setting, but his companion seems at home.
“Hey, what was your name? I’m not sure I caught it earlier,” Adam says, trying to strike up conversation.
They did in fact introduce themselves earlier but Adam can’t for the life of him remember. He isn’t great with names even at the best of times. And these aren’t the best of times.
The man across from him smiles with a teasing edge.
“Jules. Bit young for dementia, Father.”
“Old soul.” Adam sighs. “Jules. Adam.” He gestures to himself.
“Yes, I remember.”
Adam narrows his eyes.
A woman about Adam’s age comes out from behind the counter to greet them. She has lively eyes and an auburn braid slung over one shoulder. She takes in Adam’s rumpled coat and seasick expression with a knowing smile.
“Rough crossing?”
“You could say that.”
“It’s always worst your first time,” she says with a wink as she drops down a couple laminated menus on the table.
“Get you something to drink to start off with?” she asks as she lights the little stub of a candle at the center of the table. Romantic.
“Just a cup of tea please. Driving,” Jules says.
Adam is about to order a glass of water when Jules cuts him off.
“Let me introduce you. This young lad here is the new vicar of the old church. I’m just taking him there now. His first time on the island, so it is.”
The woman eyes him with interest.
“Well well, it’s about time someone took charge of that place. Time has not been kind to it, since Father Thomas... Well, I expect you know all about that,” she chirps.
Adam’s brow furrows as he admits, “I don’t know the details. Something about an accident?”
She leans forward and lowers her voice.
“Accident.” She lets the word hang. “That’s one way of putting it. But you ask me? Man was losing his mind. Margaret Tully saw him three nights running, pacing the cliff path at two in the morning, talking to himself—or to something. Pleading, she said. Like he was begging for mercy. I recken he hurled himself off that cliff.”
She sighs.
“Coastguard found him the next day, broken on the rocks below, clutching a bible to his chest, but it had a thick branch stuck right through it. Could have happened in the fall maybe. I say he did that himself. As for what drove him mad, it’s anyone’s guess.”
The waitress stands back up, and Adam is aware of Jules fixing her with his gaze.
“Was an accident. Evening stroll gone wrong. That’s all it was. A tumble when going for an evening stroll, more like. And as for the bible, there’s plenty of trees and brambles down there. Could have been impaled on the way down. Pay it no mind,” he says, turning to face Adam.
Adam looks at them both in turn.
“Well. This is all news to me. I don’t know what to make of it. I can try to see if I find something at the vicarage. Maybe he left a clue or something. I don’t know.”
“Would you?” the waitress enthuses. “People here are gossips, and we’d all love to know more. Father Thomas was dear to us all, and there’s nothing quite like a mystery to get tongues wagging.”
Adam manages a nod before the woman snaps back to business. “But look at me hogging your precious time. What can I get you now?” she asks.
“Just a glass of water for now, please,” Adam replies, pretending to study the menu as his mind whirls.
“Coming right up,” she says, spinning on her heel as she heads toward the bar.
After the sound of her footsteps fades, Adam leans over to his companion.
“I’ve just set foot on this island, and I’m met with rumors of madness and death. What have I gotten myself into?” he murmurs, the tension in his voice mingling with the clamor of the bar.
“It’s just a bit of gossip and superstition if you ask me. I wouldn’t dwell on it.”
Adam frowns, more intrigued than he’d care to admit.
“I don’t suppose you know more than you’re letting on?”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Some things are best left alone, Father.”
“You’re a cryptic old sod, aren’t you?”
Jules chuckles.
“Listen. This place. Does things to people’s heads, doesn’t it? All that wind and water and nothing else. Starts feeling like the edge of the world. People get ideas. They come out here, thinking they’re connecting with the grand cosmos or some sort of pagan powerlines etched into the earth or something. It’s just superstition mixed with boredom and fueled by Hollywood. Now I’m not saying that your predecessor, long rest his soul, was into any of that, but you can see how it gets people talking.”
Adam sits back and studies the older man.
“That’d be a bit of a scandal, wouldn’t it? Man of the cloth, driven mad by some sort of what? Pagan witchcraft, and hurls himself off a cliff?”
“Unless it was just a slip.” Jules holds his gaze for a beat too long, then looks away. “Cliffs are dangerous at night.”
Adam is about to press him further when the waitress returns with a pot of tea and a glass of water. She pours Jules a cup.
“You boys know what you want to eat?”
“Fish and chips,” Jules says. “And a side of those onion rings if you’ve got them.”
“Coming right up.” She turns to Adam, pen poised.
“I’ll have the same,” he says, not taking his eyes off Jules and noticing how the other man does his best to avoid eye contact. They eat without speaking.
The food does not in fact live up to its ‘world famous’ reputation.